Exodus
by A Pisces Alone
Summary: Don Julius attempts a bold and desperate escape from Rozmberk Castle to meet Marketa.
1. Chapter 1

At long last, freedom.

Don Julius leaned forward in the saddle, urging his mount to charge up the hill at a frantic pace, the animal's hooves thudding wetly in the cold, muddy soil. His arm thrashed unrelentingly at the horse's heaving flanks, his throat expelled near-freezing air in a terrifying roar that defied the creature to flag in its headlong dash. Weeks of confinement, of wanly languishing in his bed, seemed to nip at his heels as he fled the castle, and he did not heed the bewildered and panicked pleas of the last two guards, left far behind on their inferior mounts. His exodus would not be denied nor delayed by any living soul.

Reaching the crest of the hill, Don Julius had no intention of slowing. The open fields flew past dizzyingly, the forest beyond closing fast - speed was cleansing him of the opulent stench of the Castle Rozmberk, washing over him like rushing water. He closed his eyes, sucked a deep breath and unleashed it again in a triumphant bellow over the horse's head, causing the animal to flatten its ears more firmly and lengthen its stride yet more. Don Julius laughed, exhilarated, stole a glance over his shoulder to see that his captors had been lost entirely. His teeth bared in a smile, and he jerked the horse toward an opening in the trees, the blood on his hands causing the reins to slip slightly in his grasp. A fallen log, crumbling and sodden dark with early winter moisture, appeared in the horse's path, and the steed cleared it with a heavy grunt, Don Julius leaning over his neck, rejoicing in the brief soaring sensation.

Amongst the trees, the young prince allowed the horse to slow to a graceful trot over the brown, wet leaf drift, softening its tread to a rhythmic beat that matched his own racing heart. His face flushed and pink, he peered behind him once more, saw that he had not been followed into the trees, and smiled again. The sycophantic guards would face the ire of his father for allowing him to slip their watch; he cared not for what consequences would befall them. His only thoughts were of escape. And of Marketa.

 _Marketa_. She was waiting for him, surely. He had at last deciphered her cryptic, unspoken communications, and understood now that she intended to receive him at a nearby creek in the woods. Marketa and water were one; she of the baths and magical green water. It would be impossible to consummate their holy union in the plain sight of the Vltava, thus she had arrived at a deliciously secret alternative for Don Julius - a hidden haven in the forest, where the water trickled playfully, musically, over the rocks. _Marketa. Marketa!_ How ingenious she was, how clever and resourceful. As she would be, the keeper of every secret that had teased and tormented him from the vellum pages of the Coded Book of Wonder. And soon - very soon - she would reveal to him each of these secrets, would unlock the door to the meaning of his existence; the door against which he had bruised and bloodied his soul for a lifetime.

Yes, he had at last understood her intentions for them to attain privacy away from the castle. Only last night, as he had observed her from his high castle window yet again, had her meaning become clear to him. Don Julius's lower lip, reddened from his headlong flight in the chilled air, stretched in a smile as he remembered the moment of his enlightenment.

He had taken up his evening perch in his window, his eyes locked on the bathhouse door below on the opposite banks of the Vltava, where eventually his Marketa would emerge with her stained crockery for their nightly dousing in the river. Don Julius had not seen Marketa any closer than from his seat in the window for several weeks - not since she had attended his last bleeding, wide-eyed and enigmatic - and he yearned to be near her. To close his fist around her long, brindled hair, to consume her secrets with his very mouth over hers... to taste them flowing from her and into his very essence. Restless in the window ledge, the prince drained the last of his wine and tossed the chalice carelessly away, where it clattered across the floor. Village life wound down slowly in the periphery of his vision as the skies began to darken, but Don Julius's eyes never left the bathhouse door.

And, at last, Marketa appeared below in the dusk, carefully laden with numerous bowls and instruments, her hair flowing over her shoulders and back like a river of gold and copper. Don Julius sat up straighter, licked his lips, his gaze focused sharply in the failing light. He whistled shrilly in the biting chill of the air, pleased with the way the sound echoed across the river. Marketa immediately looked upwards to him, hesitated briefly, then knelt at the water's edge to begin her task.

Don Julius whistled again, shouted to her. His head buzzed with wine, love and magic, a harmonious soul-song that overrode and obliterated the voices that tormented him. His angel, his princess, was the sole entity capable of driving away his demons - only she could silence them. Only when she was near, only when he could see her, were they mute.

But she had ignored his shout; Don Julius's brow furrowed in confusion and worry. Impatient for her to look his way once again, he leaned out of the window and bellowed at the top of his lungs - a full throated, royal roar that no commoner would dare ignore - and was rewarded when Marketa paused in her rinsing to turn her face and eyes upward once more. _Yes, yes!_ He had her attention. He thumped his chest over his heart with his fist, flung his arms wide in an open embrace: an invitation there would be no mistaking.

Marketa watched, frozen, then resumed her chore without response. Breathing heavily, Don Julius observed her, his eyes fixed on her small, white hands as they worked. They swooped around inside each bowl like slim, graceful fish, flashing and capable. She poured water from one bowl to another, back and forth, and stole a glance upward at him.

His heart stopped.

 _There! She speaks to me through her hands, through symbolic meaning - just as in the Coded Book!_ Mesmerized, Don Julius watched as Marketa poured the water back and forth between two bowls several times, watching him from beneath her wild hair. He did not breathe. Across the distance, even amidst the dim rushing of the Vltava, he could hear - or imagined he could hear - the tinkling sound of the water she poured. Excited, he jumped from his seat in the window ledge and stood tall as the realization came over him that she had just sent him a message. One only he would understand.

Delirious with his epiphany, Don Julius yelled happily to her an affirmation, so that she would be sure that her intentions had been interpreted accurately. Marketa gathered her crockery and instruments, threw him a final, furtive sidelong glance, and departed the river for the bathhouse. As always, when she disappeared for the night, Don Julius felt a stab of loss, and the sweet hum that had sung through him in her tantalizingly distant, brief presence began to immediately stutter and fade. His jaw tightened, he pressed his fingers to his eyes and groaned. Then he remembered: Marketa's message. She had spoken to him as plainly as if she had shouted across the Vltava: her hands had mimicked the gentle flow of a creek. Without doubt, she intended for Don Julius to understand this as the location where they would meet. A place that was to be theirs, and theirs alone.

Don Julius's mind raced frenetically; he turned from the window and began a rapid, chaotic pacing of his room, ignoring the servants who had entered to light the chamber's chandelier and numerous other candles. Their presence disrupted his passionate ruminations; the benign, conversational murmur amongst them caused him to ball his fists and grind his teeth. When he could tolerate it no longer, he ordered them out with a resounding howl of rage and a violently overturned candle stand, sending them scurrying from his fury to leave the chandelier only half lit. Don Julius returned to his window, though he knew Marketa would not reappear in the dark, and leaned on the stone sill, his arms stiff, rocking and swaying in agitated impatience. Which was the creek Marketa had indicated with her swishing crockery?

His mind retreated to several months before, on one of his earliest riding excursions through the countryside, before his father had decreed that Don Julius's banishment be contained exclusively within the castle. There had been a creek, Don Julius remembered, one with a most delightful, cheerful tinkling and burbling, high in the hills, as it ran toward the Vltava. A surge of emotion tumbled over him, staggering him with gratitude that he'd discovered the creek those many months ago - the thought that he might not have seen it and thus would have misunderstood Marketa's message was one to turn his stomach. But on the heels of such relief was the unsettling realization that he surely had missed other cues from Marketa due to his own ignorance of his new environment. He could thank his loathsome father for that; it was only by the king's unjust, callous word that Don Julius were now ensconced in Rozmberk Castle for his treatment and recovery. Only he could release his son from this prison.

Under the crushing weight of his isolation, Don Julius's knees slowly buckled, and he sank to the floor, his back to the wall beneath the window. His chest tight, he ached to be free, to be set loose upon the lands to roam as he had before. His hands clenched and relaxed repeatedly, as if he might squeeze the loneliness from himself or throttle the demons that even now crowded close in his half-lit chamber, muttering terrible, violent ideas to him. His hands slid to his ears, his eyes shut tight, his mind flailed for the lifeline that kept his head above the waterline: Marketa. Marketa. He seized upon her as a dying, desperate man, his breath caught in his throat as he relived her divine message to him in the gentle play of the water. Her small alabaster hands, plying the sparkling fluid back and forth...back and forth... her promise of salvation.

She would not let him fall prey to the demons; Marketa alone could keep them away. And, when Don Julius was able to escape his imprisonment - which he was passionately determined to do - he would race to her mystical creek in the hills, and she would forever vanquish the voices by spilling her secrets to him. He had given her his blood, offered his heart, his very soul. Now, Marketa would be the one to give all that he desired. He would take her, they would become one in the sluicing, magical water of her birth, and her secrets would at last be in his possession. Don Julius's breathing quickened, his pulse pounded with nearly sickening force at the dizzying notion of obtaining such critical answers - possibly the very meaning of life itself! - and of melding with his goddess. But these defining chapters of his life, fated to occur, could not take place until he was granted leave of the castle, even if for only a short time.

Raising his head from his trembling hands, he bellowed for the priest. He would have leave of this castle if it required a trail of witless corpses. Nothing would prevent his exodus to Marketa.


	2. Chapter 2

Hearing the key rattle in the lock of his door, Don Julius rose quickly from his position beneath the window, satisfied that he had aroused the priest with his shouts. The sudden movement brought on a wave of faintness, and he leaned forward, hands on knees, cursing. His first bloodletting session had left him in a weakened state from which he had only just begun to recover, and these near-fainting spells had been all too common.

Flanked by two guards, Carlos Felipe entered with trepidation, saw his charge bent over, and inquired, "What ails, Don Julius?" Casting a discerning eye about the king's son's chambers, he noted the half-lit chandelier and arched an eyebrow. "Why have you not permitted your attendants to complete their nightly duties? One you have so frightened that he requests release from your servitude."

"To the devil with the servants," Don Julius growled, straightening. "They disturb what little tranquility I attain with their bustlings and mutterings." The prince's eyes flickered, his upper lip curled in a sneer. "Whoever among them is too cowardly to carry out the simplest chores in my presence would be considered well disposed of." Don Julius advanced on the priest with purpose, and the guards readied themselves to restrain the king's son. He circled the trio slowly, as if to make a sudden break for the door behind them, and the guards adjusted their positions, tensed for action.

Holding his ground, Carlos Felipe did not miss the feverish countenance of the prince - the flushed cheeks, the blazing eyes that always heralded a violent episode - and inwardly scorned the ridiculous bloodletting tactics directed by the king's physician. Clearly the benefits of the dubious medicinal procedure were only temporary, if indeed they were effective whatsoever. "Why have you summoned me, Don Julius? Unless you wish to offer confession...?" He let this suggestion linger in the air, though his own cynicism and experience with the prince prevented any true hope that the offer would be accepted by Don Julius. Especially now, with the young man exhibiting such obvious signs of ill humor.

"Confession?" Don Julius spat upon the floor, close to the priest's feet. "There is my confession, priest. Scrape it from the floor and present it to your God in my name: Don Julius D'Austria, son of King Rudolf, and Lord of Krumlov."

Crossing himself, his lips in a hard line, the priest turned for the door, but Don Julius moved with him, desperate to retain his audience. His voice roughened in his plead, "I seek liberty from this prison of a castle, old man! I require immediate release!"

The priest halted in his departure, breathed a weary sigh. "Don Julius, you request pardon each day. Yet you know as well as I that your father has placed certain conditions upon your freedom, and that your behavior as yet has not risen to his standard. Perhaps when your condition has cleared..." he looked Don Julius up and down, taking in the young man's disheveled hair, wild eyes and trembling, tense limbs.

Don Julius ground his teeth in frustrated fury. "I perfectly well understand my father's covenants, you miserable old husk. What I desire is a brief reprieve. I must have a day in which I am not within sight of this wretched castle! One single day, priest - one day to ride to the hills and forest, to hunt, as I did prior to the barbaric treatment I have endured!"

Carlos Felipe sucked a tooth, considering. Acutely aware of the young man's recent obsession with the bathmaid Marketa, he knew that the request for a hunt in the hills could be a ruse to gain access to the town, where he might well cause havoc. As if aware of the priest's thoughts, Don Julius pressed further.

"I have no wish to slog through the shitpiled streets of Krumlov, if that is your concern, priest. I see more than enough of the blighted town and its mouth-breathing inhabitants from my window each day," the king's son sneered, gesturing toward the black square of the nearest window. "My sole desire is to ride, to gain peace and privacy." Don Julius licked his lips, willing himself to control the emotions that rattled him to his core; he must present his request as a reasonable one, if he were to sway the priest. He drew a deep breath, looked at the floor. "A man can lie rotting into his bed cushions for only so many days," he muttered, twisting his hands together in what he hoped was a contrite display. "It would greatly improve my... condition..." he looked at the priest from beneath his brows, "if I were able to take the air, to exercise my discipline in the hunt. Failing such a reprieve, I can only anticipate that my humors will worsen."

One of the guards snorted, then glanced away when Don Julius turned a baleful eye toward him.

The priest concealed his disgust at the young man's manipulations. Don Julius was never more devilishly poised than when he wanted something and required access to it through another person. _And yet..._ the clergyman studied the king's son again, allowing himself a small spark of optimism... _perhaps there is some truth in what he speaks, madman though he is. Such a lengthy confinement surely has not helped his illness. And if he can be contained by guard to the forest for this short expedition, what harm can come of it?_ "I would require conference with the king's physician, Don Julius, in order to grant such a request. If Mingonius agrees that a day on the hunt would be beneficial to your health, then I shall send a letter to your father and..."

"No, you shall not!" Don Julius interrupted, his voice echoing from the walls. "No! I will not have my respite delayed by your pathetic, cowering missives to my father! I must ride tomorrow - tomorrow, and no later! To hell with Mingonius! You, priest, will allow my release in the morn or I shall cease all treatment from this night forward, and apprise my father of your woeful ineptitude!" Don Julius roared, dispensing entirely with his transient attempt at civility. His head ached, his pulse pounded in his temples, panic was rising in his chest at the notion of not being permitted release the following day. What if Marketa were to wait at her magical creek, and he did not appear? Spurned, she would never again offer him such a tryst, he would never know the secrets of the Coded Book or her luscious body. Why was the priest standing before him so calmly, so impassively, when Don Julius had presented him with a matter of royal import? Why did he not make haste to prepare for tomorrow's hunt for the prince? "I shall jump from these very windows, I swear it, if I am not given reprieve!" he cried. Only then did he become aware of the tears coursing down his cheeks. "I shall be driven mad by confinement!"

Responding to his words, the guards moved between Don Julius and the windows, prepared to intercept the prince should he make a leap of desperation.

The priest shook his head at the guards, waved them back to his side. "You are already mad, Don Julius," he pronounced coldly. "But a day in the forest you shall have." Carlos Felipe turned for the door, unable to dispel a sense of defeat in his gut but mitigating it with faith that vigorous exercise would do the young prince some good. _Providing, of course, the whore's son is able to remain upright in the saddle. He has has been very weak since the bloodletting._ Over his shoulder, he added, "You shall be under heavy guard of no less than eight. For your own protection, Don Julius. I expect you shall behave in a manner befitting the king's son, and that you will return to the castle before sunset." With this, he swept from the room, musing that if Don Julius were to suffer a lethal fall from his horse or some other sort of dire hunting mishap, he would feel nothing more than relief at the death of his depraved charge.

Don Julius watched the two guards file out behind the priest, mentally marking the one who had mocked him - the bearded, dark eyed jailor who always tied him with the most vicious knots. Don Julius reserved a special hatred for the man. Once the guards had pulled the door shut behind them, the young prince kicked it with enough force to make the heavy wood shudder in its frame, bellowing vulgar insults at their departure.

But a ravenous flame had ignited in him; he had gained his freedom for the following day - he would be loosed for a time to move, to breathe. To view sights other than the four walls of his opulent prison chamber. And most of all - his pulse quickened once more at the thought - he would have liberty to race to his angel Marketa's side and become one with her. Whirling from the door, Don Julius seized the carafe of wine from the table and drained it in greedy, giddy gulps, spilling a portion of the dark fluid over his chin and chest. He laughed uproariously at this, flung the crystal vessel into the air and watched it plumet to shatter into glimmering shards across the floor. " _Marketa_!" the prince bellowed, throwing his head back in triumph, "I have heard your message, my angel! You will be mine, I swear it!"


	3. Chapter 3

Don Julius woke before dawn with a jolt, prodded to consciousness by the sharp chill in the room; the fire in his chambers had dwindled to mere embers, and he had thrown off his bedclothes overnight as he twisted fitfully in his slumber. Surely he had never endured so long a night! The hours had passed for him as a series of delicious, delirious dreams interspersed with wakeful spells of drunken frustration - a torment of waiting for this day, this moment. Raising himself on an elbow, the prince noted a large pool of urine by the window - he had no memory of relieving himself there - and smirked. Another conundrum for his servants, who were compelled to treat his every bodily fluid as if it were holy water and dispose of it by exercising elaborate and stringent courtly protocols. Although by this time, Don Julius mused, they were accustomed to such predicaments in his service, for he had made a vile game of depositing his urine, phlegm and seed in ever more unlikely places in his chambers for his servants to discover; some days, it was his only source of amusement.

But not today.

Today, Don Julius had much, much more awaiting him - he rose from his bed and walked to his window, where he peered down upon the bathhouse below, glowing faintly in the moonlight. Was Marketa still abed? Did she slumber deeply, dreaming of him, as he had dreamt of her? Or was she awake this moment - as he now was - unable to contain herself at the gravity of what awaited them both? Turning from the window, the prince shouted for his servants.

Moments later, two sleepy-eyed attendants were escorted into his room by a guard duo; the small group somewhat bemused at the early arousal of the king's son, who typically slept late into the morning as an effect of his heavy drinking. They shrank slightly from his rough appearance, drawing back from his reddened eyes and haunted, manic expression.

"I wish a bath before I break my fast this morning," Don Julius instructed.

The servants darted glances at one another in confusion, hesitating. "But... forgive me, my lord..." one spoke carefully, eyes cast downward, "I am told that this is your day for the hunt."

Don Julius waited for more, his eyes flashing back and forth between the two servants. "Well, what of it?" he snapped.

The servant who had spoken flinched, his face reddened in humiliated fear. His companion took a step away from his side, as if to be distanced from any sudden attack by the Hapsburg.

"Do you mean to imply that I have forgotten my own arrangements on this day?" Don Julius growled. "That I require prompting by my servants in order to mark my purpose moment by moment?"

The cowed servants shooke their heads in unison, eyes on the floor.

"You will draw my bath at once and keep your insolent tongues still, or you shall find them cut from your heads and fed to the hounds."

Dawn was rising in vibrant pink glory over the distant forest treeline; Don Julius rubbed his hands together in the frigid air with fervent anticipation. Behind him, he could hear the squeak of leather as girths were tightened around the bellies of horses, the clink of bits as bridles were fastened, a gritty shuffling of restless hooves. A human tread approached, and the prince turned to face his valet, who bowed briefly before speaking.

"Sir? What weaponry do you desire this morn? What will be your quarry?"

 _Marketa! My quarry is a beautiful maiden, the light of my heart and the angel of my soul!_ At the thought of his secret quest, Don Julius smiled widely, enjoying the effect this had on the valet, who was more accustomed to seeing the king's son in foul tempers. "I require my crossbow on this hunt, and my knife," he directed, purposely ignoring the second half of the valet's query.

The valet waited a beat, observed the prince's freshly scrubbed face and still-damp, clean-smelling hair with some perplexity, then nodded briskly and departed to retrieve the weaponry.

Don Julius looked over his shoulder at his despised retinue of guards as they milled about - some already mounted - outside the Rozmberk stables. Joking loudly in the biting chill of the morning, their rough voices pelted Don Julius's ears like thrown rocks. He scowled. Seeing his glowering stare, the small crowd of men quietened, their grins fading into their beards. The prince's eyes moved from one to another, counting, sizing each Krumlovian guard up. Eight in all - more than what had escorted him in his earlier hunts during the summer. And each of them with obvious hatred for him burning in their eyes. Don Julius tightened his jaw; his wrist twisted unconsciously as if carving out the offending orbs from each man's head. _Ignorant, brutish fiends! Stinking jailors!_ Don Julius turned away from the men and spat; the sight of his father's hired wardens had soured his palate like stale wine.

The valet led Don Julius's horse to him and handed him his hunting blade. The prince vaulted into the saddle, checked that his crossbow was secured as instructed, and immediately put his heels to the animal.

Surprised shouts rang out from behind him as the guards saw their royal charge racing away. The men that were mounted gave chase immediately, the remaining guards scrambling into their saddles, swearing, to join the sudden pursuit.

Don Julius bent low over his mount's neck, lashing its flanks urgently, and stole a glance over his shoulder. Despite his unexpected flight, he had not managed as large a margin of advantage as he had hoped; four of the guards were closing fast. The guard in the lead was shouting, imploring him to slow his horse, to await his ensemble.

With an oath, Don Julius swung his horse's speedy track in a wide sweep toward the forest in the distance. Hooves thundered closer and closer as his captors neared on either side, the guards yelling frantically for him to stop, to pull his horse up, as they collectively realized that the madman's flight was no mere game but an earnest and desperate attempt at escape. The horse to his right suddenly veered close, bumping his own mount as both sprinted along at breakneck speed. The rider, cursing, leaned forward to grab for Don Julius's reins in a frantic effort to gain control of the Hapsburg's mount. Don Julius jerked his horse's head to the left, but the Krumlov guard had seized the reins and immediately sawed backward on the horse's mouth.

The horse skidded to a halt in the mud with such suddenness that it nearly sat on its haunches, and Don Julius scrabbled to keep from being thrown over its neck - his chin struck bony peak of the horse's skull, jarring his teeth. The guard's horse had hurtled past Don Julius's mount, causing the rider to jerk his reins forward, out of the prince's reach, before losing his grip on them. Three more mounted guards slewed to a stop around the king's son and his horse, hands reaching for him and for the animal's bridle. Crying out in desperate rage, Don Julius clawed wildly for the reins that had been pulled nearly over the horse's head, feeling his liaison with his beloved Marketa slipping away with the leather straps. Then they were in his hand again, and he was reconnected with his mount, the horse's mouth alive in his grasp; he dug his boots into the animal's sides to propel it forward.

But another guard blocked his path, the horse leaping in front of his and bringing Don Julius's steed up on its hind legs. The Krumlovian reached upward for the reins, ready to seize them once the horse descended - and Don Julius recognized him as the dark-haired man who had mocked him the night before. Twisting in his saddle, Don Julius used the horse's momentum as it came down and deftly plunged his knife into side of the man's chest just beneath his upraised arm.

His hand felt light as air and powerful as steel - the knife had gone into the guard's torso as easily as it would have a rotten pumpkin - and Don Julius earned a flash of the man's surprised, rolling eyes as he drove the blade in further. He wanted to thrust his entire arm through the man, obliterate him. Blood flooded over his hand in a warm cascade and still he pushed, twisting the weapon forward, forward, until he felt his grip on the knife's handle beginning to slip.

The dark-haired guard clutched feebly, faintly at Don Julius's rigid arm, but he could do little more than pluck at the Hapsburg's sleeve, gasping, before he began to slump sideways in the saddle. Horrified shouts raised in a clamor from the other guards as they witnessed the prince spill the blood of one of their own, but Don Julius did not wait for further reaction. Yanking the knife free of the guard's body with a spray of blood, he viciously shoved the man's shoulder with his gory, slippery hand, easily spilling him from the saddle and onto the ground with a limp thud. With a victorious shout, he rammed his heels into his horse's sides to bolt away from the carnage.

His breath came hard in his throat, burning. His vision speckled, his hands tingled; Don Julius bowed his head over the coarse, flying mane of the horse, willing himself not to faint. To swoon now, he would surely fall from horseback and be captured - he would never fulfill his destiny with Marketa. Gritting his teeth, the young prince tightened his thighs around the horse's barrel, urged the powerful destrier to greater speed yet. He could smell the guard's blood on his hand, running up his sleeve. The meaty, alchemical scent, an aroma of butchers and battles, of life and death - the smell of his own valor and bloodlust - revived him, and Don Julius pulled himself upright in the saddle once more.

Daring a look back, he saw that only two guards remained in his pursuit - the others, far behind at the scene of the attack, were clustered around the fallen Krumlovian.

And his final pursuers were flagging, now that they had witnessed the bastard prince plunge a blade into their companion with no more thought than he would spear a roasted pig at supper. Even as they still rode, Don Julius knew, they were weighing which was more dire - to face King Rudolf's ire at allowing his son to elude their custody, or to directly confront the bastard Hapsburg in his mad flight. As the reluctant pair dropped further behind in their half-hearted chase, they sustained a volley of shouts to him, token commands that he turn his horse back and rejoin them in the name of the king, his father. Don Julius charged onward up the hill, feeling strength flowing into him from some unknown source, and his face broke into a brilliant smile. _Marketa._ She was near, sending him the vitality he required to complete his mad dash and to reach her.


End file.
